


Amyro ABCs

by hanbins



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Alphabet, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Rare Pairings, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8678866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanbins/pseuds/hanbins
Summary: Twenty-six one-shots about a strange pyromaniac and a naive princess.





	1. A is for Airport

"D'ya really need 'ta go, sheila?"

John knew it was a pointless question, yet it rolled off his tongue anyway. John stood on the sidewalk as Amara helped her chauffeur, bodyguard, whatever the hell he was, grab her luggages out John's car. He was sent to escort her by her father.

"It's a little too late to ask that, don't you think?" Amara giggles. She walks up to where he was standing, her luggage in hand.

John purses his lips and says nothing. He wasn't good at...this type of thing. Call it separation anxiety or whatever fancy term you want, he was gonna miss her. He knows he's being over dramatic though.

"You act like we're never gonna see each other again. I'm coming back! It'll just be a week then we can spend the rest of winter break together! I promise!"

He knows that too. But even the smallest second apart from her seems like forever. He's deep in thought, dull eyes scanning the ground.

"John," her empty hand goes up to touch his cheek.

His eyes finally meet hers and he's reminded why he never looked at her since they got here.

"I'll miss you."

"I'll miss ya, too," he replies meekly. He can't bring himself to fake a smile.

Amara looks back at her bodyguard, saying something in Portuguese. John's confused, but by the flustered look on his face and his sudden march into the Airport entrance he assumes she told him to piss off. For what, John isn't sure until Amara's face came closer to his, the smell of coconut and shea butter the first thing to distract him. The next was the gentle peck she gave him.

It was short and sweet, like her, but in that moment John decided he wanted more than that. Somehow John found himself pouring all his current emotions into this kiss. Compared to the kiss she gave him, this was different. This one burned with all his desire. His desperateness, his loneliness, but ultimately his love for her.

John knew this was cliche of him, he probably even wrote something like this in one of his previous books. He can't remember. The only thing he could remember was the devastating ache he felt throughout him when she pulled away, resting her forehead on his. Her now lightly red nose brushes his and his mouth misses her warmth.

"Be good while I'm gone," Amara says playfully. "And I'll skype you when I get home so make sure you answer." Her face brightens.

"Alright, luv." John promises to the second, not necessarily the first but she didn't need to know that.

Amara's escort comes back out. " _Pardon the interruption, Your Highness. It's time to go,"_ he said in Portuguese.

"Okay," she replies.

They embrace each other once more before Amara waves goodbye. When Amara's no longer in sight, he gets in his car and lights a cigarette. Maybe the next time this won't affect him as much, he hopes.


	2. B is for Best Friend

"So are you guys in love or something?"

Amara looks up at Tabitha, her eyes wide with a nail polish brush in hand. The drops of pink paint oozing from the tip of the brush to her nails don't even faze her until she realizes what Tabitha said.

"Tabby, you made me mess up! And I don't know…" Amara adverts her eyes.

"Whaddya mean ya don't know?"

"I mean I do like him, a lot actually. It could be love, I guess." Amara sighs. "But I don't know if he feels the same. What if I tell him and he freaks out or something?"

"He won't because he likes you a lot too! No boy takes an hour drive every weekend just to spend a few hours with you unless he really, really loves you," Tabitha places a reassuring hand on Amara's shoulder then adds, "Or you're putting out."

"Tabitha!" Amara jumps to her knees, shrugging off Tabitha's hand and ruining the fresh, new coat of nail polish again in the process.

Tabitha laughs, leaning back on Amara's bed with her hands behind her head. "So that's a yes?"

"No!"

Tabitha stares knowingly at Amara.

"Well. I-I mean we did some things. Not like...sex or anything just...stuff."

Tabitha turns over on her stomach and rests her hands under chin, amused.

"Princess Amara of Nova Roma doing naughty things? Gimme the 'deets! How far did you go?"

"Not too far."

"Did he…" Tabitha trails off, forming a circle with her left hand and pushing her right index finger back and forth through the circle.

"We didn't do that!" Amara goes to playfully smack Tabitha but a buzz in her back pocket stops her. She takes out her phone and practically squeaks at who texted her.

 

_hey :^)_

 

Amara smiles at her phone and texts John back cheerfully.

 

  _hey you :^)_

 

"That's an ugly smiley face," Tabitha comments from over Amara's shoulder. Amara's startled and she wonders when Tabitha made her way behind her in the first place, but replies anyway.

She looks up at Tabitha, a cheesy smile on her face. "It's our smiley face. We only do it when we say "hi" and "bye" and stuff."

Eyes back at her phone again, she awaits his text. It's not long before they're having a full conversation, with the occasional input from Tabitha.

 

  _alright sheila i gotta go. mags is on my arse. we'll talk later :^)_

 

Amara types the first two letters of "okay" but before she could type the rest, her phone is already out of her hands and in Tabitha's.

"Tabby!"

"You'll thank me later!" Tabitha shouts as she runs out of the room.

Amara chases after her but Tabby is hella fast and Amara isn't sure she can keep up. When Tabitha is far beyond her sight, Amara sighs. ' _She's gonna send John something weird', she thinks._

Already giving up, Amara walks back into her room and sits on her bed with a huff. Tabitha, however, comes back beaming and giggling.

"I don't even know what you said and I hate you."

"Come on, 'Mar. You know you love me. _And John, too._ " She adds under her breath as she sits back on the bed.

"Huh?"

"Check your texts," Tabitha says in a sing-song voice, sliding Amara the phone.

 

_okay bye! i love you :^)  
_

 

"TABITHA!"

Amara slumps to the ground, too in shock to be mad at Tabitha.

"Why would you say that? He's not gonna say it back. He's gonna ignore me. Ugh, this is so weird. Tabby, what if he doesn't t-"

"Girl, chill out. He's so into you. Of course he'll text back! Just watch."

As if on cue, Amara's phone rings.

"It's John! What do I say?"

Tabitha rushes to her side. "Just talk!"

Trying to collect herself, Amara exhales then picks up the phone.

"Hello…?" She says unsurely.

"Hey, sheila." His accent is as thick as ever and Amara feels herself becoming hot. Maybe it's his accent or maybe it's because she just told him she loves him via text and she has no idea of what he's about to say. Or both.

"Who's Sheila?" Tabitha asks innocently.

"Shhh," Amara says.

"W-what's up? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine." He answers quickly.

Other than Tabitha's constant request for updates, everything is silent. His breathing is a bit heavy and Amara begins to wonder. Did she upset him? Is she moving too fast? Is he about to break up with her? She's so wrapped up in her thoughts she almost didn't hear what came out of her phone's speaker.

"I love you, too."

"Holy shit!" Tabitha shouted, earning her another shush and finger to her lips. Luckily, John didn't hear.

"Uh me, too. I mean, I already said it first but y-you know, I...yeah um. Same."

She can hear John chuckle on the other end and slowly her nervousness goes away.

"I really gotta go now, sheila. I'll call you."

"'Kay. Bye-bye."

Amara hangs up and immediately looks at Tabitha with a half pout, half glare.

"Real smooth, 'Mar." Tabitha teases.

"That wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for you!"

"I know! Now you know he loves you. And he's so dramatic," Tabitha goes on," Calling back just to say he loves you too? He's so up your ass. I told you there was nothing to worry about."

Amara rolls her eyes, but she was secretly thankful.

"Anyway, I'll take letting me copy your math homework as a thank you." Tabitha smirks.

Amara got her homework out of her bag and handed it to Tabitha. It was the least she could do for her (nosy) best friend.


	3. C is for Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna be honest this was completely self-indulgent.....

Amara was sick. Really sick.

Not the ordinary cold, where it was simply curable by orange juice, honey, and some scolding hot chicken noodle soup. It was different. The kind of sick that kept you up at night. The kind that made the tip of your nose a complete different shade of color than your normal skin tone. It was winter, one of the least liked seasons of hers, so it was likely for her to get a cold this time of year. She always does.

And when she does, John always visits.

He barges through her door with what she secretly wanted but was too shy to ask for, soup and attention, and John has lots of it to give.

"Open up!" John grins while holding out a spoon to Amara. "Come on. Choo choo!" John teases when Amara didn't play along. The metal utensil pokes at her full bottom lip until she gives in, allowing the hot broth to soothe her throat on the way down.

"Mmm."

"Good?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Amara goes to grab the bowl however John pulls the bowl out of her reach beside him.

"I wanna feed you," he grins as he acquires another spoonful of soup, "Open up, sheila."

"I appreciate the thought but I'm not 7 years old. I can feed myself."

Of course, John doesn't listen and pushes the spoon to her mouth. She sighs, again giving in to his wishes.

"Consider me your nurse, I'm gonna comfort you back to health." John smiles.

At first the idea seems ill-conceived-John nursing her back to health? He was the most dangerous, unpredictable person that this house has ever inhabited (besides Tabitha but that was another story) and somehow continued to one-up himself with every waking day. But then again, John was also really kind towards her and his compassion is something that she loves in this relationship. Plus this was a chance to have her boyfriend do whatever she wants.

"Alright John, you can be my nurse," she smirks.

"Yes! Now eat up," John says as he glides the spoon in her direction.

"No, no no no," she holds her hands in front of her face to deflect the soup. "Before you feed me, I need you to do me a bigger favor."

"What is it?"

"You'll see. I'll be right back!"

Amara gets up from the bed, almost tripping when her first foot touches the ground, fatigue catching up with her. Her footsteps become silent for a few minutes and before long she returns with a garment in her hands. A nurse outfit, accessories and all.

"I hope you're wearing that."

"Nope, not today. This is all you."

"This isn't what I imagined when I said 'be your nurse'."

"I did."

John's eyebrows raise and his mouth slowly curves into a lopsided smile. "Really? You did? Is that a kink I should know about?"

"No! Just put it on!"

"Fine, luv. But only because you're sick." John takes the outfit out of her hands.

"Don't forget the cap," Amara half sung in a higher pitched voice.

"Eat your soup," he retorts.

John manages to squeeze into the outfit although the fabric was a bit tight around his waist and arms, probably enough to make marks on his skin. He didn't care about that right now though. John looks in the mirror as he places the cap on his head. He actually looks pretty good. ' _Should dress like this more often',_ he said to himself.

"Where'd ya get this anyway?" He fixes himself in the mirror then heads back to sit beside Amara who was halfway done the soup.

"Kitty ordered this for Halloween but they shipped the wrong size or something. Anyway, now I need you to go ge-"

"No."

Amara pouts. "What, why?"

"Because," John grabs the bowl and places it out of the way, the bedside table then returns to hover over Amara. She lays back on the bed, slowly, until John's frame casts a shadow that completely veils her. His eyes are intense, "Nurses don't listen to patients."

"Then what do they do?" Amara's a bit more quiet when she asks. Her voice barely a whisper, she closes her eyes.

"Exactly what I said before— Comfort you back to health. _Maybe not in the traditional way though…_ ," That last part is a low and deep, mumbled into her skin right under her jaw, but Amara caught every syllable and John later caught, while well worth it, her cold.


	4. D is for Disturbance

That pen hadn't been worth stealing. Or maybe it had, she recalls taking it out of her jacket pocket and watching as the shining steel reflects the sun. In her defense, the pen had meant something in the heat of the moment. Like a small victory of sorts. A very small victory.

Earlier that afternoon Amara made her way to the library, like she usually did when she needed a change of scenery. Living at a mansion full of rowdy mutant teenagers, a trip to the library was one that she desperately needed every once in awhile. Opposite of the X-Mansion, it was a bit small and secluded in some areas, and it didn't smell like the boys' locker room after training, instead fresh book pages and quick whiffs of roasted coffee beans from the cafe across the street every time the library doors opened, but most importantly it was quiet.

She sat in her usual spot. The circular wooden table with the squeaky leg that hid near the back of the library, behind the non-fiction section. She'd pull out her blue notebook and her school books and begin studying, deciding to skip chemistry for today and start with English. About five hundred words into the rough draft of her essay, Amara noticed an excessive amount of people entered the library since she arrived. _Ugh, great._

Despite her dislike of the crowded area, she continued to write her essay. That was until the shadow of a certain person caught her attention.

"Mind if I sit here, sheila?"

Amara looked up at them intrigued by the accent however she's met with a familiar face.

"Pyro!" She almost stuttered. She stared at him with her mouth slightly open, not expecting such an intriguing voice to belong him. What the heck is he doing here? Is he stalking me or something? Amara slowly reached in her pocket and grabbed her phone, just in case she needed to make a quick call to Scott or Jean for help.

"Oh ye're tha' fiery sheila, right?"

She hesitated. "Yeah, but why are you here?"

He looked around, then returned his attention to Amara, a cheeky grin on his face.

"A bloke can't come to a library?"

Amara glared at him then noted the books his right hand was hugging to his chest and the bookbag that clung to his back. Okay, maybe he is just here to study. This situation was still sketchy to Amara, but she guessed he could sit here… for now.

With her allowance Pyro took his seat across from Amara and set his stuff down, Amara's eyes focused on his every move. Minutes passed before Amara felt less uneasy at the table, but not by much. She still took quick peeks at him every once in awhile. So far he was well behaved. A little too well behaved for someone she and her teammates were just fighting in the park a few weeks ago.

She peeked again, this time from behind her English book, only her eyes and above visible. He was laughing, probably at a video or something. His laughter boomed throughout the library only to become gradually louder and louder, far beyond their little table in the back.

"Be quiet!" Amara shushed him, then slumped in her seat when he ignored her and remained in tears from laughter. There is no way that stupid video is that funny!

Amara had enough. She got up and stomped to his side of the table.

"HAHAHAHA-oh 'ey wot's up, sheil-'EY WOT WAS THAT FOR?" Amara had shut his laptop closed, ending the cute video compilation of cats doing silly things.

"You're so loud! I need to study!"

"And 'm not stoppin' ya!"

"Yes, you are!" Amara shouted back with balled fists at her side.

"Shhhhh," the librarian came over and warned them. She told them that if they caused one more disturbance that they would be escorted out.

Amara found her way back to her seat after being scolded and continued her work once again. This essay was due in two days and she hasn't even written a full page yet. This was turning out to be the worst trip to the library ever and at this rate she was looking at a big, fat F.

"I can do this, I can do this," she chanted to herself under her breath. "Let's just finish half then we can g-"

_Tap tap tap, tap tap, tap tap_

Amara exhaled loudly. She didn't even need to look up to know it was John tapping his pen against the table.

_Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap_

"I'm leaving," Amara hastily stuffed her books inside her bag.

"Aw what's tha matter," Pyro asked. He grinned from where he sat tapping his pen away.

"You! You're the matter! The freaking cat videos are-no wait. Cat videos are cute. But your laugh is annoying! And this!" Amara leaned over the table and snatched the pen out of his hand, unbothered by his shocked reaction, then waved it in his face. "You use pens to write, not bang them on the table like ...like ...the little drummer boy!"

Amara didn't even know much about the little drummer boy, but she did know she hated that Professor Xavier played the song all the time nonstop during the holidays— so yeah it was fitting.

John got up from his seat. He snickered and took the pen back. Suddenly Amara felt the cool, smooth metal of the pen lightly bop her on the tip of her nose twice.

"The little drummer boy?" More snickers. "That's cute," he exposed his teeth in a lopsided smile and just looking at him enraged Amara.

Seconds later the pen was back in Amara's hands, but not for long as she flung it across the library over multiple shelves of books.

"Ow!" Someone in the front shouted. Oops.

"'Ey that was an important pen!"

"Too bad!"

Amara finished packing her bag, her notebook the last to go in and she let it hang on one shoulder.

_Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap_

She shot him a glare, one probably equally intimidating with Magneto's John thought. He immediately stopped tapping the second pen he got from his bag.

"I'm confiscating this one."

He nodded then formed a grin when she walked away.


	5. E is for Emulate

Amara watched Kitty closely as she lovingly feeds her boyfriend Lance at lunch. Sugar cookies. Noting how over-baked they looked, Amara realized Kitty must have made them herself. Lance declined at first, probably just trying save face considering he was supposed to be one-fifth of Bayville High's rowdy delinquents, The Brotherhood. Or because he also saw the charred bits of the cookie falling to the lunch table every time time Kitty waved it in his face. Either way, one pout from Kitty and it was enough for him to reconsider. Kitty pressed the cookie to his lips and he happily obliged, Lance's hand covering her's to glide the cookie to his mouth. It was bad. Amara could tell. However Lance was a good actor and Kitty hadn't even noticed how much he disliked the cookie, especially when he kissed the top of her forehead as thanks then snuck an arm around her shoulders, bright smiles on both of their faces.

* * *

"I'm outta here," Logan grabbed his leather jacket and pulled the keys to his motorcycle out of his jean pocket. Like most days, he was angry but in this particular situation it was a rage that could only be resolved by beer and a cigar in some shoddy bar miles away, or at least that was what Amara thought until Ororo followed behind him and placed a hand on Logan's upper arm. The rest of the New Mutants hung out in the living room, however Amara couldn't help but watch the scene that was unfolding in the foyer. Logan's sighing heavily, seething, and Ororo is somehow finding all the right words to say. In a matter of seconds Logan's calm again, hands intertwined with Ororo's. They're talking, then embracing. It's quick but Amara's still in shock that she seen Mr. Logan act like that. Ororo left for a while then returned with a jacket of her own on her back. They leave together holding hands and Amara can hear the low growl of the motorcycle's engine as they rode off.

* * *

When the sunsetted and the chaos of the Institute altered into peaceful sleeping and off-putting snoring, Rogue made herself an outliner. Usually on mid-weekday nights when Scott was less likely to patrol the halls religiously. Amara had her fair share of nightmares and she found solace in midnight snacks which is why it was common for her to spot a scurrying Rogue dart down the stairs and out the door. Four seconds was how long it took her to check for witnesses and close the foyer door gently. Her demeanor and attire changed in the forthcoming weeks, Amara noticed. That was just the beginning however. Biweekly packages from an unknown person caused a deep, bashful smile on her face and confusion within everyone else in the Institute. Kitty included and that fact made Amara realize that this was serious. Five months seriously apparently, Amara learned upon eavesdropping. She didn't mean to, honestly. Wrong place, wrong time, she was stuck in a section of the girls locker room, damp hair and dewy skin after a private Danger Room session. Rogue talked on the phone, doing a great deal of things no one has ever really heard her do; giggling, snorting, flirting. Just being herself. Amara thought she heard a declaration of love from the speaker, to which Rogue replied something snarky but just as endearing.

* * *

Jean awoke abruptly, letting out a high pitched scream that silenced as it reverted into deep, erratic breaths with the occasional hitch in her dry, raspy throat. Tears dripped from her chin onto her silky blouse. Small damp patches formed where the tears once rolled as Jean meekly called out Scott's name, as much as it hurt her to do so. He arrived along with a few others, Amara included, shock written on all their faces. Scott was the first to enter and sat on Jean's bed, a comforting hand running along her back and shoulders while he asks her what's wrong. A bad dream. And a headache, she replied in the midst of what looked like a breakdown to Amara. She cried into Scott's shirt, the damp patches on his shirt now matching her own. She sobbed harder and Scott took her in his arms to position himself beside her while she laid with her knees to her chest. Jean whispered something inaudible, but Scott understood. With a conformation that she was okay, everyone left the doorway in relief except Amara, who remained there a few seconds, just long enough to see Scott glide her crimson red hair out of her eyes and coddle her to sleep.

* * *

Ray tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the X-Van as he waited for the traffic light to finally turn green. He and the New Mutants just got out of school and were on their way to pick up Jamie. On green Ray continued up the road then took a right turn to Jamie's school. Usually Jamie was near the sidewalk waiting for them with a goofy grin on his face, but this time Jamie was at the school entrance. And he wasn't alone. He was talking to a girl. All of the New Mutants peered out the windows, amused. Same height. Short, brown hair. Good sense of style, from what Amara can tell despite her obstructed sight. Jamie pulled something from behind his back. Flowers. Knowing Jamie, he and his multiples probably picked those from the school grounds or something but the sentiment remains; it was sweet. The older mutants cheered him on inside the van with their whoops and laughter, Roberto even going as far as to claim "he taught him that", which earned him an eyeroll from Amara. The girl accepted the flowers that she now held in both hands while smiling and giggling at whatever Jamie was saying. In return, she leaned in to give a quick peck to Jamie and he was immediately red and glowing once her lips touch his cheek. Jamie sheepishly smiled as he waved goodbye to the departing girl and he follows suit, making his way the the van. Instantly he's greeted with cheers, teases, and a slap on the back. Flushed, Jamie burrows his face into Amara's arm and Amara reminded herself to pester him for details later.

* * *

Amara laid on the carpet of the recreation room also known as the room of endless distractions, completely used to the beeping and whirring of the video game console as well as Bobby and Sam's deafening shrieks. There was no such thing as silence here, the quietest noise being Ray's snores and even those could break world records for being the loudest. As she stared at Jamie who was on the quest to create the largest human pyramid of multiples, she realized that maybe this wasn't the best place to study. Yet, polynomials and radical expressions weren't on her mind anyway and she'd be lying if she said they were. She shuts her Algebra two book carelessly like she couldn't be bothered read another equation then pushed it across the carpet to prod against Ray's sleeping body.

Her boyfriend was far more interesting to think about than math, but eventually the current problem in their relationship would invade her thoughts and cause her to throw her head into the floor in frustration.

"Awright there, 'Mara?" Rahne must have heard the thud Amara's head made against the floor because her eyes were focused on the television screen, just as absorbed as Bobby and Sam were.

"Don't worry about her, Rahne. She's just thinking about her stupid boyfriend. She _loooooves_ him. Trust me, I read her diary."

Amara glared at Bobby and mentally reminded herself to change the location of her diary later. Maybe inside a natural science textbook, he'd never look there.

"Whatever ya'll goin' through, it ain't nuthin' I bet. And don't listen to Bobby, Ah thought ya poems an' doodles was charmin'."

Amara wished she had Kitty's phasing ability right then so she could bury her head into the ground more. She wanted Sam to be right _so_ bad but this wasn't _nuthin'_ , or a petty argument that arouse every few months to be resolved with compromise and kisses. This was something that constructed at the foundation of their relationship and grew bigger and bigger until Amara was forced to confront it. It was hard to admit, however she and John just had no time for each other. They lived different lives and we're aligned to enemy leaders. Tabitha tried to reassure her once— "It makes the sex hotter! Ever seen Romeo and Juliet?"— but it didn't make her feel much better, being compared to two dead fictional teens and all.

Everyone else in a relationship made it look easy. They knew exactly what to do. What made their partners happy. She couldn't even name his favorite color. It wasn't entirely her fault. He was a busy person, as was she— school and being a mutant was tough. Either of them having time for each other was rare. There was no formula to a perfect relationship, not one that could be solved with a quadratic formula at least, and no matter how much Amara studied other couples she couldn't mimic what others had with her and John.

Amara sighed.

"Holy shit, Astro Invaders X? I want loser," Roberto walked in and practically jumped, two feet off the ground over Amara and Ray.

"Ooh me too!" Jubilee followed behind Roberto but sat next to Amara. "Hey what's up?" She shook Amara's upper thigh until Amara got up and turned around to look at her. Jubilee read her face, "Boy trouble?"

Amara nodded with a pout.

"Aww, come on. Tell Jubes all about it," Amara guided her head into Jubilee's lap and immediately started talking to the ceiling.

"I don't know what else I can do. We barely see each other and- _ugh._ I do not know how this works. I do not know how any of this works."

"Alright, alright. Slow down and start from the beginning."

"There is no beginning. It was ruined from the start and it was ridiculous of me to think otherwise."

"Amara don't think like that! You guys were together for three months, there's no way you were together that long and there's nothing between you too. Are you sure this isn't just a rough patch? Every couple has them every once in awhile."

"No, its not. Amara's been crying about this for weeks." Bobby said in between button mashing. "Page forty-eight through fifty-five," He added when Jubilee and Amara stared him down.

"She numbers her diary pages?" Roberto smirked.

"Anyways you guys should just talk about it. Tell him how you feel." Jubilee pushed Amara's hair behind her ear only to ruffle it into a messy nest right after. Amara let it be.

"And then what? We'll still always be two different people with very different interests and backgrounds."

"That's what makes it interesting! Who wants to date a clone of themselves? Yuck. Speaking of clones, what are you doing lil' J?" Jubilee snickered at Jamie who has since gave up on the pyramid challenge and was now on the couch writing something.

"Nunya!"

"Gimme!" Roberto popped up from behind the couch, surprising Jamie, and snatched the paper out of his hands. Roberto ignored the cries of resentment as he recited it out loud.

"Ahem. 'Dear Brianna, Thanks for letting me borrow your homework last week. You're so cool. I'm glad we sit together in Mrs. Deely's clas- ack!"

A dozen Jamie tackled Roberto to the ground after hopeless attempts at retrieving his letter.

"Ow he bit me!" Roberto shouted.

"Which _one_?" Jamie teased, accompanied by a dozen raspberries.

"You little twerp," Roberto went to grab for one multiple but it vanished into transparency.

"Catch me if you can!" Jamie and his multiples dashed out of the Rec room, all going in different directions. Roberto followed.

"Aw that was a cute letter. Maybe you can write John a letter," Jubilee suggested.

"I don't think so. He wouldn't have the time to read it either."

Jubilee bit her lip. Then suddenly got up, making sure Amara's head rested on the floor carefully then ran upstairs. Amara thought she finally got tired of her complaining until she came back with bundles of magazines spanning publishers and months. It wasn't a Jubilee advice session if _GirlPOP!_ wasn't involved. She ripped through the pages and threw them in any direction when she doesn't find what she's looking for.

"Ay watch it, Jubilee," Sam said, ducking and weaving teen girl magazines like he still believed in cooties.

"Shut it, I'm trying to fix Amara's love life. True love is at stake here, man!"

Jubilee was silent, crinkled pages taking the place of her voice. They come to a halt and Amara shut her eyes at the advice she was about to receive.

"'Trouble in paradise? How to totally fix the rough patch in your relationship.' Amara this is perfect!"

"How convenient," Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Just play your stupid game and prepare to get your ass beat after I'm done, Drake."

"You're on," Bobby pressed a combination of buttons loudly.

"Hmm. Okay. Get a cool new hairstyle?"

"No, thank you." Amara rubbed her long, brown hair at the thought.

"Get a dog?"

"We don't live together…"

"Oh right. Write a letter?" Jubilee giggled. "Seriously that's what it says!"

"Let's move on," Amara sighed.

"A private romantic date?"

"What's the difference between that and a normal date?"

"No distractions, no fancy stuff, just you and your significant other. You know, a more personal date."

"Why don't you just have a picnic or whatever," a raspy voice spoke up next to them.

"Ray? How long ya been up, buddy?" Sam asked and put the controller down, the long battle between Sam and Bobby finally over. For now.

"Long enough to know Princess is having relationship issues again and you suck ass at platformers," Ray sat up and yawned, long and wide.

"It was Jubilee's fault. Got ah whole paper cut and everythang!"

Jubilee gasped. "Ray that's a great idea, you beautiful sleepy bastard!"

"Yeah, yeah," He moaned and laid back in position to sleep, hands rested comfortably on his stomach.

  
The kitchen is the source of the muddling smells that drift the Institute's halls and dorms. There seems to be no end, electric stoves running all components for some time now. Amara didn't know how long but she has had many visitors throughout the day, Ororo visiting twice now to check on her and the occasional diversion, Bobby or Kurt to keep her (horrible) company.

Desperation is evident. It's in her pots, on her cooking utensils, riding the smothering smoke up the vents and to the smoke detector (which she set off three times now, one of those times not her fault, she thinks.) It's manipulating the sweat that slowly descends her cheek and falls in singular drips at her chin. It's in the aroma that keeps everyone else coming down to check on her. And most importantly it's in her head, and she can't get rid of it.

She bites her lip and peels at some skin with her teeth. Earlier this week, after weeks of mourning a dying relationship, she called her boyfriend to plan a date at the park. The call didn't last long, of course. Acolyte business prevails as always but he agreed. Not as enthusiastically as she hoped either. She shakes her head, scraping the thought that maybe this was a three month long mistake, maybe this was their end. There were bigger fish to fry. Well more relatively, shrimp.

She shifts the pan swiftly above the fire until satisfying sizzles reach her ears. Broth audibly demands her attention and she listens, scurrying past countertops to stir while turning down the heat. As if cooking multiple courses at a time isn't difficult enough, the complexity of the stove made her curse it. There are too many buttons and knobs and lights. Maybe it's her own fault for making too many things for a simple picnic, but this needs to be perfect. And nothing says perfect like food they both like. The only obstacle is finishing this before sundown. She's almost done, last things she needs to do is store the soup and get dressed. Ray promised to drive her previously with Jubilee's help.

Amara turns the broth off and searches for thermos' she just recently bought. They have cute animals on them and matching keychains. And they're missing.

"Wha-huh? They were just… over here? Where did they go?" She sighs heavily. She didn't need this right now. She shouts out to the rest of the mansion, a hand gripping the door border tightly. "Has anyone seen my thermos'? I left the on the kitchen counter and I would greatly appreciate it if you returned them to me!" Amara bites her lip again when there's no reply. Only a retort from Mr. Logan, "Stop yellin' in the damn house!"

_It's not even a house. Hmmph._

Amara raids cabinets and shelves for two, shiny metallic soup containers. She's basically tossing things on the ground hysterically.

"Amara?"

She doesn't hear her name over the clashing and clutter she was making.

"Amara, what on earth is going on in here?" Ororo takes one big step over the pots and cups Amara has thrown on the floor.

Amara stops in shock, a pan in her hand. She waves her arms at her side, looking for an explanation before giving up and letting them rest at her sides, shoulders slumping. The pan is set hard on the counter and she sits down on the stool.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Monroe. I'll clean it up."

"Would you like some help?" Ororo sniffs the air and smiles gently. "Smells good. Will we be tasting some of this today?"

"No thank you. And no not today. I made this for a picnic. With my b- friend. My friend. But… nothing is going right. We're not exactly on good terms right now and I listened to Ray and Jubilee and prepared for this stupid picnic and now the stupid thermos' are missing and I'm gonna be late and I'm stupid."

"Amara, you are far from stupid. I believe a picnic is a wonderful idea. Plus with food this wonderful I'm sure you and your friend will make up somehow." There's an emphasis on friend and it makes Amara look down timidly; Ms. Monroe always knew.

"It just doesn't feel like it. What do you do when you and your friend barely see each other and it feels like you're not important to each other anymore? What if you have nothing in common and there's so much keeping you apart?"

"Relationships aren't easy. There is so much that both sides have to input for it to work. Possessing similar interests means nothing if you don't care for each other and communicate that. For instance, Mr. Logan and I. We are from very different paths of life and have different approaches to everything. And as you know, Mr. Logan can be-"

"Rude," Amara interjects.

"Strong-willed. But communication is what's important because it works. Though it may not seem like it at times, your friend cares for you."

Amara stays silent. Ororo reaches her hand out to Amara's.

"Have you ever wondered that maybe not seeing each other stresses your friend out too? It's possible your friend is just having trouble relating how they feel to you."

"If so, he sucks." It's his fault they aren't meeting up as much.

"Amara…," Ororo warns.

"I'm just joking," Amara sighs and gets up to look for her thermos'. "I'm going to be late." Ororo follows. Then stops.

"Are these perhaps what you're looking for?"

Ororo dangles two metallic canisters with a shy smile and a raised eyebrow. She winces when Amara shouts with joy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, Ms. Monroe. Where were they?"

"Right here," her index finger points inside the sink.

Amara mentally slaps herself. She forgot that she rinsed them out before food preparation.

"And you sure this is all just for a picnic?" Ororo jokes while observing Amara stuff plastic containers and metal utensils in her basket. Glossy, satin ribbons adorn the corners, sequence trailing along the ribbed handles. Amara nods eagerly. She's a lot less stressed after Ms. Monroe's talk and reappearing thermos'. She packs the meal that she's most excited about last, on the sides. Tacacá. It was a dish from her home and she is happy to share it with him. If she makes it on time.

She asks Ms. Monroe to watch her basket for hungry scrounging teenage boys to which she agrees. Amara bolts upstairs to get ready, a pre-picked outfit by Kitty. It's pretty simple and it surprises Amara, a white off the shoulder sweater and jeans. Amara scans over her reflection quickly from head to toe. Ponytail or straight down? Boots or sneakers? Make-up or— no she chooses make-up. Boots on her feet and blush along her cheekbones, she runs to Ray's door. It takes many knocks for Ray to drag himself out his dorm. And a pestering Sam, who Amara would thank later.

Ray starts the van, tired eyes and slouching back. Amara feels a little bad.

"Thank you, Ray," she says sincerely at a retiring red light.

"No problem. Just save me some of what you made and we'll be even," His foot pushes against the gas.

The park isn't far away and the ride is short. Amara checks her phone. There was no specific time she has to be there by, just an estimate, but she wants to at least get there before it was too late. Ray brakes when rustling trees and widespread grass is in sight. She jumps out and grabs the basket, the blanket, and her jacket just in case.

"Good luck, Amara," Ray smiles. He's so bad at it but in a cute way. "Call me when you're ready."

"Thank you, I will!"

She sprints to a clear area of grass. After setting the blanket down she texts John exactly where she's located. It's not very windy which was perfect but every now and then a breeze would fly past her neck and shift the tips of her hair. She starts to count them, five breezes now since she had gotten here. It's beginning to set in, all of this, and it starts at her stomach, churning acid and worry in cycles.

His silhouette is in the distance, decreasing the meters between them with slow steps. He looks confused then Amara remembers he was never really good at directions anyway. He stops, looks around. She sits silently. Should she wave or shout his name? Or just sit. Maybe he'll finally see her. He does. And he walks. Faster. Amara feels glued to the blanket.

He stops at the line between grass and fabric and Amara wonders if she's allowed to cross it.

"What? Ain't gonna greet me or nuthin'?"

Tons of retorts reside on her tongue but she chooses to let her feet carry her instead. She crashes into him, head ramming into his chest as her arms cradle his back. Her arms barely reach around his frame, she grabs as much as she can. He stumbles a little. She can feel the cycles fade as he pulls her closer and kisses the parted middle of her hair. She's happy she wore her hair down. Two breezes of air whisp by, or maybe more but she's counting his rising and falling heartbeat instead. It was just as inconsistent.

"I missed you," she says. It's always the first thing she says.

And he always changes the subject. "Made all this for me? Ya shouldn't 'ave."

He sits on the blanket, legs crossed while patting on his left. She kneels down, not sure what to say. To do. He crawls over to the basket and opens one door.

"You're bloody spoilin' me, luv."

John brings out everything. Meals spread across in front of them he points at all of them, chanting something under she breath. Amara doesn't know what he's saying, catching small bits about kangaroos and hunters so she assumes it's a weird nursery rhyme.

"This one!" He picks up a container and Amara lays out a plate with forks and spoons. She internally screams. It was the other special thing she made. The meat pies.

It's the best she can do, she had no access to his other favorite Aussie snacks and this was easiest to make in the kitchen. She hopes it tastes good.

"Fuck," He says with the fork between his lips. And other curses she was raised not to say.

"Is it okay?"

"More than okay. Fuck."

"Stop cursing," she giggles.

"Sorry, can't 'elp it."

She expects more curses, just not against her lips. The churning is back and her rate of breathing is horrible. He leans closer, meat pie down, his hands caressing her thigh. She breaks for a breath and suggests him more food.

He tries most of what she made already. Amara's glad she made a lot.

"What's in those things?" He reaches for one thermos, puzzled. He shakes it, twisting and flipping and jiggling the contents to guess with his senses. "Lemme guess. Soup?"

"Almost. It's a recipe from back home. I think you'll like it," she smiles but on the inside her organs feel like the thermos John was shaking. This is so much different from everything else she made, this is her country's food, a known staple. A staple that now travels down his throat as she went over all the worst possible scenarios.

"How have you been?" she says once he swallows spoonfuls. He doesn't physically show disgust. That's a good sign.

She looks out to the rest of the park as she allows him to finish. She rather avoid John choking on Tacacá. There's this one lady on the bench further away that stares then looks away with fright. And the person briskly jogging with their Labrador along the cement path.

John sets the thermos down.

"Mmm. Pretty good. Mags has been real nice ta us lately. If ya don't count the runnin' in and outta the country, doin' stupid small jobs. 'S been real busy."

Busy. She hates that word. She hates the way he he talks about being busy so carelessly. How he lays back and doesn't notice how much he's he's hurting her. She hates when he's busy.

"Are you here for long?"

"As of now, yea. Looks like he might 'ave some business 'ere for a while."

"That's good," she says. She can't stop the end of her mouth from jerking upwards.

Amara's counting breezes, this time more as a timer for how long she's gonna stare at his resting body before she does or says anything. She decides to lay with him, maneuvering his arm above her shoulder and snuggles into his side. She hopes her primer works well as she lays her head on his chest again. He had a light grey long sleeve on and she didn't want to ruin it. Or she did, so he could go home and think of her when he sees the makeup blotch her face marks. She was hoping for the latter now, and subconsciously rubs her face against him.

He pauses. His heart, she can feel it. It stops and continues and Amara can't figure out if this is a good reaction or a bad one.

"I really missed you. A lot." Those words were a test. A shot in the dark and she wishes on the duck shaped cloud above both of them that she doesn't miss. _Just say it back._ She's never hoped more for Ororo's words to be right.

She's. Wrong. The sight and feel of John rising confirms it.

"I-I don't get it. Do you not like me anymore?"

He's not looking at her. She's not even sure if he's listening to her. He groans.

"Luv, 's just not that simple."

Not that simple. Busy. She's hating words more and more as he talks.

"I disagree. It's very simple, John."

The last few syllables stumble on their way out of her larynx. Her eyes plead to his back. "It's very simple," she whispers again to the blanket that oozes between her tight, shaking fingers.

They don't talk. The wind does. And that dog barking meters away. The grass. Everything except them seems so lively.

"'Mara, I'm beggin' ya not ta do this now. Please."

"No, I'm begging you. Talk to me!"

It's a very weird feeling that trembles through her, one she's not used to. A foreign feeling she was raised opposite of. Opposite of haughty and confident and favorable. Disposable is what she is to him. She promises she won't cry. Yelling is appropriate however.

"You're so rude and inconsiderate! If you want to continue to be immature then fine! I'm going home! And don't try to call me or text me or come to my school or my home or anything! I'll tell Mr. Logan if you do!" Amara bends down to reinsert the food into the basket. Plastic containers slam against twine adding more to the scene Amara is causing.

John presses a hand down on the last container before she grabs it.

"Keep it," she jeers. She rises off her knees with the basket in hand.

He stands quickly to catch her. His hand only catches her basket but it's enough to stop her from leaving.

"Oi, are ya mental? Got the 'ole block thinkin' ya crazy! Ya not even givin' me enough time ta explain myself and ye're already swearin' me off."

"Do you still like me?" She has to know. It's killing her and a just the thought of a possible yes keeps her grounded at the feet.

"Walk with me," He sighs as she lets her basket down on the blanket. She doesn't like how he's ignoring her questions but she follows his steps anyway. They leave their area behind and he leads her to trees. Lot of them. Amara's surprised when he walks into them, ducking and moving branches like he's done this plenty of times. He holds a branch out for her as she passes.

Makeshift dirt paths await them. Dead leaves and splintered twigs border crumbly dirt beneath their shoes. She's glad she chose boots. It's a long, narrow trail. Her steps are right behind his, just like his— she can't stop looking at him. There's such a strange space between them— two inches feels so lonely.

They stop at a dead end, a decaying log and some stumps coming into view under scarce, scattered light of the sun. It has all the characteristics of an abandoned camp ground. He circles around it like he lost something in the mounds of soil. Wide eyes accompany suggestive eyebrows when he looks up at her. He's not searching anymore, she thinks. She hopes so.

He sits on the log. It creaks under his weight and it raises the concern of whether the log was stable enough. John trusts it though, enough to invite her too, a few heavy pats that revert into a rested hand on browned oak. She accepts.

Another creak. She's starting to feel bad for sitting here. She glances at him. To her left he sits, head down, mouth shut. It's too solemn of an expression. So unlike everything about him.

"Ye're really somethin' else. Followin' some crazy bloke into the woods."

"I trust you."

"That's the problem," He mutters then scoots back to lift a leg over the log. He taps her knee. "I'm here for a few weeks, maybe."

"Yeah, you told me."

"And afta' that. Then what? How long ya willin ta wait for me?"

"As long as it takes."

"As long as it takes. As long as it takes, she says," He lets out a hearty chuckle. It's so close to a cough, forming in his chest and releasing in several lengthy breaths. "That's a bit naive of ya."

"How? You don't think I can?" She pulls her leg over the log and stares him in the face.

"I don't think ya should. Not even a lil bit."

"Why?"

"Luv, I don't know what you're expectin' but if s' what I think ya want, I can't give it ta ya. Walks on tha beach and candle dinners, this," He looks down at her hands, folded delicately on top of his, "Talkin' every day o' tha week and whatnot."

"I don't need extravagant dates. I just need you."

"Horseshit! Ya just went bonkers back there over a lil picnic."

"It wasn't because of the picnic, it was because you were being rude. And before that you rarely called me to check on me or anything! I would like to talk to you, not your voicemail."

"I can't promise that."

"You can't promise to talk to me?" She folds her arms.

"Don't throw anotha' bloody tantrum. Somebody'll think I'm harassin' ya or something," He peaks at the path they came from.

"I wasn't going to," she whispers. She was. Amara drums a simple pattern against her arm and presses fingerpads into her sweater. She's tired, her heart's tired and there's no more breezes to count under his gaze.

"What should we do?" She asks the question again, but in her head the second time, much more distressingly.

"Forget 'bout me. Go back to ye're X-friends, do ya homework, listen ta Mr. Logan, and whateva' else good sheilas like you do," He mimics Amara's voice during "Mr. Logan" as well as he could. If it's possible to laugh and sigh at the same time, Amara does it.

"What if I don't want that?"

"What, ya gonna join tha Acolytes? Be a bad gal?"

The thought makes her think of her phase as a Bayville Siren and shake her head vigorously. "No, that's not what I meant. What if I don't want to forget you?"

"Look, 'Mara. I don't wanna hurt ya feelings and I'm really not trying ta be the guy Logan decides ta go absolute apeshit on. Ol' Sabbytooth is bad enough. Ya act like I like leaving ya alone. I rather ya ditch me arse than wait on me. Who knows how long ya'll be waitin'."

"A month, apparently," Amara rolls her eyes.

"Ya can thank Mags for that one. That bloke can't be arsed 'bout other people's time and well being. Money and power, mutants rights, the lot."

"And a proper phone plan isn't considered in all that?"

"Alright, alright, ya got me. But ya know I'm not a tech typa fella. Pen and paper is where my loyalty lies."

"Then send me letters." She can hear Jubilee's snickers ghost her memory.

"Ahh, like love letters or whateva? That's stealin' me intellectual property, luv. Need that for me books."

Amara smiles slyly as the corners of his eyes crinkle. He beams, teasingly.

"I think I've earned them. Being your muse and all," Amara bats her eyes.

John lessens the space of log between them and laughs, knees almost touching.

"Bugger me, you're persistent aren't ya? Well then, I can't always promise letters, but hopefully a postcard will do sometimes, yeah?" He peers into her. She was looking down slightly and he maneuvers to get into her sight. "Whadda say?"

Amara nods. "Okay. That'll do, for now."

John goes to get up, but flings his leg back over the log again, obvious astonishment on his face. "Ya understand? No fightin' me, no nuthin'? Are ya feelin' unda tha weather? Might needa bit a tha soup ya made," Sarcasm oozes from his voice and Amara wants to slap the hand that he presses to her forehead, ashen palms exposed, but the warmth feels too good.

"Be quiet, you're already breaking up with me. Sort of. And my only consolation is a postcard. No need to be rude." She doesn't remove his hand though.

"You're right. I 'pologize. Ya 'ave my word, from 'ere on out I'll be civil with ya."

"Thank you," she forces a smile. It's so much harder to do when you feel like the decomposing log you're sitting on.

His hand takes a detour when he removes it. Instead of his original route, simply letting his hand fall back down onto his lap, it proposes a new route, one way more teasing. Amara can feel his palms now, rough and warm running along the side of her face. One iteration wasn't enough; he starts from the beginning now, right side temple to the endless waves of her hair, then pushes it behind her ear. Her ear is bare and cold but her insides exhibit a great contrast.

"You're not being very civil," she breathes.

"'Pologies," He smirks.

It was a bad habit of his, to apologize time and time again but never actually do anything to warrant a change of action. It was a meaningless nine letter word (eight in John's case). A light peck on her forehead precedes another apology.

Everything feels so warm, despite whistling winds at her cheeks and he quickly kisses them away. Two hands rest below her jaw as a gentle thumb write semi-circles on her lower face. It's amazing, the first time they've kissed like this in who knows how long and it shows. Bumbling, nervous hands find his shoulders, getting lost on their way. Her nose bumps his awkwardly, a small secondary greeting that makes him chuckle. The uncomfortable position the log forces them into makes her groan and she hauls him down to her. She just wants him closer.

A lot can happen in a few minutes, she finds. Amara, out of breath and grasping at his shirt, removes her legs from over top of his mid-thigh and turns around on the log. Familiar, indulgent hands cradle her from behind as soon as she's comfortable.

"It better be a pretty postcard," she huffs with flushed cheeks and holds his hands tighter.

"Cross me crooked 'eart."


	6. F is for Freckles

Dark brown dots speckled his face like a game of connect the dots, minus the labeled numbers— and in John's case one through fifty-two would be enough to finish the line between them all. Amara knew. She counted.

Constellations at her fingertips, she caressed every celestial structure until she was light years into exploration. Galaxies collided just on the bridge of his nose then carefully faded into newly sprouted stars that grow under his eyes, ever so small like just one could explode into hundreds if she pinched hard enough. His eyelids are shut, and she's thankful because they were an ever going solar system of their own.

"I love you," she whispered to space and beyond.

* * *

The sun had a personal vendetta against John— how something so alluring, dripped in a honeycomb yellow could create heated dampness across his face. Head down was the best way to survive the scorching streets of Sydney. His parents decided it was for the best on Saturdays. He was nothing but a little ankle biter but it was expected at his age where candy was his reason to live and elementary school woes were the bane of his existence. Vivid, merry chimes and smelly diesel chased the outskirts, intruding on sidewalks and alleys where the kids played backyard cricket for hours on end.

Ice cream and lollies, weekend delicacies, distracted from the discomfort of the heat. John sat on the curb, melted cream dripping down his chin and onto his dingy tank top. Their neighborhood wasn't the best and it showed, the kids hurling light insults at each other when the sun begins to set.

"Oliver, ya run too bloody slow! That's why we lost."

"Ay it's not my fault. Maybe if John could hit a ball correctly."

John licked the remaining ice cream around his mouth. "What are ya on about? Maybe if ya paid attention' instead of lollin' about we could scored in tha' last innin'.

"Oh shuddap. You cost us the game and you know it!"

"You're delusional, ya wombat!" John turned away, chomping down on the top of the ice cream waiting for the numbing sensation to completely overtake his mouth.

"Whaddya call me?"

"A wombat!" John said with cheeks full of ice cream.

"Your mother!"

"Mate, chill out. Let it go," one of their friends tried to dissolve the situation, but Oliver was already enraged. He stood, fists balled to his side and chest heaving, lungs full of anger that only released curses in John's direction. A good amount of it was unrecognizable to John. Not that he cared. He did care about his ice cream though. It's creamy remains marked the cement in vanilla, flecks of sprinkles breaking up the sea of white. It snaked through the cracks like ants traveling through an ant farm.

"What's your problem, mate?!" John looked back and forth at what was once his ice cream and Oliver's hands.

"You're my problem," Oliver shoved John back on his bum.

The ash formed around the scars on his palms are not important to him right now. John tackled the boy feet away from his spilt ice cream. Punches are thrown as they brawl, red rashes and minor burns caused by hot concrete adding more damage to the fight. More kids watched rather than help, except the mutual friend of John and Oliver, who tried his hardest to break up the fight without getting injured himself. He managed to pull John off, his arms wrapped around John's chest. John debated on going after him again, but Oliver retreated to his other friends in the circle of kids and he didn't want to harm his friend in the process.

"Y- you blotch faced 'ranga*!"

John froze. Those words held weight and they marinated within him, held him hostage where he stood in the street— Those words were anchors, gravity reincarnated. He slided out of his friends grasp and swallowed hard. He hadn't heard insults like that in a while and he shivered the memories away. The moon ignited an internal peace within John— cool, luminescent light illuminated stars across his face and he wiped comets with his thumb as he walked home.

 


	7. G is for Games

It's when in a distant room far removed from her a glass shatters, followed by cheers and laughter that an aura of indescribable anxiousness clouds Amara, expressed by a shiver and shifty eyes as she sits alone on the couch. Not for long though as a couple quickly joins her. Then kisses. Sloppily. Yes, Amara is at a house party. Duncan's party to be exact and Amara wonders how Tabitha even got an invite considering the two barely even know each other, but most importantly why she allowed Tabitha to bring her along in the first place.

The next song vibrates throughout the living room where a horde of bodies sway below the dimmed lights. Weaving her way in between them wasn't an alluring thought, but it beat the sight she's witnessing currently on the couch. She decides to look for her friend. Knowing her, she could be anywhere. Literally anywhere. Probably even the roof somehow, but since Amara didn't possess the power of flight, she settles for the kitchen. No luck there, but she did find a familiar face within the crowd of teens.

"Roberto?"

Roberto turns around, plastic red cup in a tight grip and a droll smile on his face. "Oh hey, menina. What's going on— wait. Amara? You snuck out, too?"

Roberto semi-abandons his new friends as he closes in on Amara. There's alcohol in every syllable and each breath makes Amara's nose twitch instinctively.

"Tabitha invited me out," she says once her senses are working properly again.

"Makes sense. For a second there I almost thought you were becoming a 'lil encrenqueira!"

Amara doesn't reply; focus on the others around her. Not a single face in the room registers with her memory. Maybe they were local college kids? Roberto doesn't seem to mind although what's in his cup could be mostly responsible; he's getting along fine with them as if he isn't just sixteen years old.

"I am going to go find Tabitha. See you later."

"Hey, Amara hold up." Roberto matches the two steps she takes forward. "I know this"—his eyes point to his new acquaintances then the living room and lastly her—"isn't your type of thing, but hey, who knows? You might have fun. Live a little." His smile is a little patronizing, but there was possibly truth to what he's saying and Amara reflects on it as she continues her search for her friend.

Of the total square feet of Duncan's home, Amara's only searched about half of it and she still hasn't seen Tabitha anywhere. She's so close to giving up, but Tabitha came here with her and she is definitely not walking home alone.

"Oh please, please, please…" Amara's voice hushes while looking through her contacts. A phone call or text is honestly pointless at this time but she has to try.

The moment Tabitha's phone number is recited through the speaker, a frustrated sigh escapes her.

Why did I come here?

"Oops, sorry!" A girl walking an adjacent path that collides with Amara immediately apologizes. "You okay?"

"It's okay, I'm fine." A gentle smile from Amara to confirm and once the girl acknowledges, she's on her way.

"Wait." Amara calls out to the girl. "Have you seen my friend? She has short, blonde hair, blue eyes… piercings. Lots of makeup…?" Amara adds on to the list when the girl wasn't catching on.

"Hmm... Oh! You mean that explosion girl! Yeah, I totally know where she is! She's back here."

There's relief coursing through Amara to have finally found her friend's whereabouts, quickly diminished by the realization that due to her antics, Tabitha is now known as "explosion girl" at this party. Why is she so reckless?

Amara isn't even through the hallway when the chants reach her ears.

"TABBY! TABBY! TABBY! TABBY!"

Tabitha's name echoes from every direction as she stood encircled by eager party-goers. She charges another bomb in her hands, probably even bigger than the last ones from the sound of the reactions and Amara can only get so far before she tosses another into the air to detonate into nothing but sparkles and particles of plasma.

"You ready for another one?!"

Tabitha looks around the room with a grin, but didn't expect a set of disappointing eyes further back.

"Uhh, on second thought, never mind. That's all folks, see ya later!"

Amara generates levels of shame way higher than the awws and boos did within Tabitha as she walks to her best friend.

"Oh hey, 'Mar. Havin' fun?"

Amara sighs. "No, I am not. I want to go home, please." She practically begs.

"Aww come on! This party couldn't have been that bad! Just chill. Relaaaax." Tabitha takes a cup out of some random guy's hands and takes a swig. "See?"

Amara shakes her head, pulling out her phone for the second time tonight to call a cab. They were definitely leaving. Now.

Turns out that wasn't just any drink, it was strong. And Amara knew this by the way Tabitha shakes her head and even stumbles a little as she drags Tabitha to the front door. They're almost there when some people block their path.

"Yo! We're playing a game and we're short on some peeps. Wanna join?" There's urgency in their voice but Amara disregards it—how important could a stupid party game be?

"Game? We're totally in!" Tabitha jolts up and the boys high five in return.

"Tabitha, no!" But it's too late. Amara is now unwillingly in a room with more people she doesn't know. Not only that but besides her and Tabitha, there's only one other girl in the room surrounded by 5 other boys.

"I'll get more!" One boy pipes up and leaves the room.

"So whadda we playing?" Tabitha asks loudly.

Someone replies, "Seven minutes in heaven."

"That's not even enough to get finish third. Let's go for fifteen." There seems to be an unsaid, simultaneous agreement that Amara isn't aware of and she is completely lost. She didn't even know what they were playing. She tugs on her friend's arm and whispers, "What kind of game is this?"

"A fun one," Tabitha whispers back. "You just do whatever you want for as long as you're in there. Or do nothing. Pretty simple. Seriously though I wouldn't let anything happen to you, especially not by some of these douchebags. Say the word and I'll getcha out of there. Like 'pie' or something."

"Fine but the taxi guy said he is coming in thirty minutes so let's just play once and leave okay?"

Tabitha waves her off. "Yes, mother."

It's even rowdier than before when the boy comes back. Amara has no idea what he said, but he manages to find plenty of people to play with them. Most of them looks around her age, though that fact still makes her nervous.

The game begins and the depth of the trouble Tabitha has gotten her into doesn't quite resonate with Amara until a slim brown bottle is placed before her. Oh no.

Amara has seen enough American teen movies (by virtue of Kitty, of course) to know what this is and unfortunately, how it ends. As the bottle spins, so begins a series of curses towards Tabitha in her head equally as fast. Luckily, for this spin she isn't chosen. Someone else is one half of the pair of victims for this game, his name lost in all the commotion.

The divots in the glass bottle scrape against the wood floor bringing a high pitched clink to Amara's ears and a new wave of anxiety with each rotation.

A few rotations too many, plenty of degrees off; she's chosen.

She feels it, their eyes lingering on her. She didn't dare to look up. It was enough embarrassment to be dragged into this twelve year old's play on romance much less be expected to actually participate. She hopes that whoever was supposed to be locked with her wouldn't mind melting or just sitting in their own respective corner.

Tabitha starts cheering loudly, whistling every once in awhile as she drags Amara up to the closet that is hideously decorated with blown up condoms and silly string from a can.

"You got this, girl. Go make me proud!" Tabitha says in an obviously playful tone and a slap on the bum to motivate her. This guy is already there before she gets pushed in by Tabby.

The door closes and all light retracts to it original source as if it had a conscious of its own and decides that whatever takes place from here on after, it would be better if it was not there. Not as a witness, nor a distraction.

But a new distraction arises. One spanning keys A through D wistfully gliding the thin, tearing sheetrock to lead to it's destination of Amara's ears. She's never heard anything similar to the tune before despite its eerily comforting presence. He pauses then starts from the beginning of the impromptu song, or so it seems to be when he puckers his lips, small yet effective gusts of air blowing like high winds. They stop short.

"I'm guessin' this 's ya first time, huh?"

It catches Amara off guard.

Blinding darkness inversely traces his frame, but his voice is clear. Well as clear as it could be with an accent as brash as his.

"Is it obvious?"

"Considerin' we ain't already in tha' nuddy pashin' each ova's faces off, yeah!" He laughs a little, just soft enough that it sends uncertainty through Amara. Also nuddy?

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Nahhh." He laughs. "'S alright. Ain't nuffin' wrong with some good ol' conversation. So what's ya name, where ya from, and all that other good stuff?"

Internally, Amara is conflicted and she's pretty sure were they not in complete darkness, he would have realized by the way her mouth parts just slightly before pinning her bottom lip down, sandwiched by her teeth. She is a naturally nice person, she thinks. Something as simple as a name would normally be commonplace, okay enough to usher to even a stranger. But maybe not a stranger who's looking to get lucky in some shoddy closet so she scrapes "Amara", "Nova Roma", and some other relative fact about herself off the tip of her tongue with her teeth until it's back in her voice box where it belongs.

"Right-o then" and the appearance of his lighter signals the return of the whistle and it registers as a song of guilt within Amara.

It's way more awkward than before. She soothes her arm, hoping the feeling will go away with every stroke.

"It's Amara," she says slowly. "My name."

"'Mara? That's interestin'."

"How so?"

"Ah dunno, sounds fancy and junk."

He flicks the lighter again and this time Amara swore she saw the flames life extend longer than the dying embers coming from its source. He repeated the action over and over at random intervals.

"I guess so. I'm sure your name is nice, too," she directs her attention from his lighter to the lower half of the face being highlighted by it.

"Nuffin' special. St. John. But we don't 'ave to be all proper, ya can just call me John."

A nod substitutes her lack of words.

"So how ya likin' ya first party, 'Mara?"

She's only partially troubled with how commonly he lets her name usher past his lips— she retorts, "This isn't my first party. I've been to plenty before."

"Oi, really?"

"Yes, back home. And some here too." She adds the last sentence with eventful memories of other places the New Mutants like to drag her to against her will.

"Although," Amara's upper thighs connect with her stomach while her arms find solace atop her knees, crossed and lively, "back home the parties weren't as chaotic. The servants decorated the ballroom so beautifully and everything was so well arranged."

"Aha see, I knew ya were a fancy sheila!" He scoots upward to her, his crossed legs now parallel, outer to her folded ones. "So tell me all 'bout it."

By now stiff atmosphere no longer plagues them, more due to him though and Amara is silently thankful for his extroverted aura.

"The receptions?"

"Sure."

Amara leans her head against her right shoulder. "Hmm. When I was younger my mother and father scheduled these events almost every week. My nanny woke me up in the morning. The guards took me to the seamstress for final measurements, then sent me back to my nanny. People came to visit us all the time. I never knew who until they were there in front of me."

"Go on then," John taps his foot against her ankle. She thinks she sees a grin, teeth exposed but she's not sure if she can trust her eyes without John's lighter. A single low giggle escapes her. He is… amusing.

"Once there was this boy, " she continues. "I- I don't remember what he looked like but my parents instructed me to meet him. We danced and talked. After that the parties became more than just parties and I didn't notice until I got older. They were trying to arrange me with suitors all over the world. Some of them I didn't even understand. It just wasn't fun. It quickly became… just-"

"Borin'." There is no hint of question in his voice and his definiteness made her release the hold on her lip that held back her sigh.

"Yes!"

As immediate as her reply came the palms of her hands crashing down to censor herself.

"I did not mean to disrespect our traditions. I miss my family dearly however those I did not."

"I don't think that's disrespectful. 'S just how ya feel."

Circular blots tint the shady walls a warm bronze. Reflection of a flame gloss his blue iris.

It's the first time she's seen his full face this close since they've been stuck here. Blue undertones paint the bags under his eyes. He looks sickly, almost. Like he stayed up all night and didn't get sleep until the afternoon and even then those few hours weren't enough. He does have a nice smile though. It's appealing and she found the chipped tooth on the left to be most charming. Patches flushed a diluted red scattered along his arms stick out next. Their undetectable cause left her silent and insistent for answers she knew she would never know. She can't match his eyes— they were too protruding, too close!

Instinct trumps reason — or maybe they're playing on the same side — when he peers into her, spine on an incline and so is her apprehension. There is a fire in his eyes and not just in the literal sense. It bubbles within him. A distinct childish, mirth that radiates off of him in fine, concentrated fumes; she holds her breath. Their noses collide in the smallest of crashes.

"G'day."

Personal boundaries were no longer a thing with him and this was becoming a pattern.

"'S not polite ta stare, y'know."

"I apologize," she says in haste when she finally finds her words. She attempts to change the subject, first thing that comes to mind, anything: "Your lighter. It's very nice."

Not a very good distraction, but it works well enough. He reels back with a mocking grin on his face. His fingers mark paths in his messy, copper hair carelessly. His demeanor is a little too playful now for Amara's liking.

"Ah, this ol' thing? No worries, this ain't nuthin'."

Chk! Chk… Woosh

It's dark again. Then it's not. It takes two blinks for her eyes to adjust and Amara realizes it's not her eyesight.

The lighter is gone, possibly back in his pocket or thrown somewhere to lie on the dusty wood before them— either plausible. Flames dance above his hand excitedly in ways that made her speechless. He just confirms what she had suspected; he is a mutant. Normal fire versus controlled fire, a difference she knows well. Fire of nature looks lifeless, quite honestly. But controlled fire, it's something else. It mimics art, bleeds red, orange, blue, violet, and white. Calm or chaotic; the lines are blurred. It powers hearts like burning coal on steam engines. It shoots down her spine and manipulates each and every molecular atom.

She can't help but touch it. She caresses the bottom of his hand with her left, then takes control of the flame for herself. It grows, breathing for a millisecond before dispersing into oxygen.

"Oi! Ya can control fire? Bloody 'ell, warn a bloke next time! Thought I was goin' bonkers right quick!"

He lays back, his spine stretching across the slim film of dust particles then sits back up quickly. "Ya're a real interestin' sheila, y'know that?"

"Thank you," there's a silent question mark on the end despite her blush. She's silently thanking the darkness right now.

"So what otha' tricks ya got hidin', huh?"

"Not much else." A lie, but she wasn't trying to send Duncan's house into havoc with earth tremors and magma. (Although Scott wouldn't mind— she wonders if he would give her less Danger Room time for it.)

"Make me somethin'," He challenges.

"Like what?"

"Hmm," He puts his hand to his face in exaggeration. "Whatever ya feel like."

She sucks in a quick breath, all her concentration and energy gathering in that one gust of air then cups her hands. She wasn't sure what she's making— it just came to her. Oddly, she has a indescribable complex about disappointing him. She owes nothing to him yet he compels her to make her home, the subject of their previous topic, for him. Miniature of course, it measures the length of both her hands and about 20 fiery floors, maybe.

"That's a real beauty," Chaotic laughter echoes off his inner cheeks. "Mind if I take ova' from here, love?"

She nods no slowly.

"Lovely."

She couldn't tell what he is making. All she sees is fusions of blazing red and orange that never really calm down enough to take shape of anything. It twirls suddenly, a mini tornado in the middle of them. Faster and faster as some flames on the surface die off; the remains remind her of cotton candy making at a street carnival.

It rains fire when he tosses the tornado in the air with one hand effortlessly. She had to admit, it looks stunning. This was quickly becoming a mutant side show as she joins in on the fun, following exactly as he did and more; her skills not as proficient but it entertains him. His laughter is contagious in a good way and her hand can't hold back her own laughter much longer, burning ears and sore cheekbones for both of them.

Amara calms her breath and braces her back with her arm, "I feel a little guilty."

"What for?" He rests his head on his shoulders. It's immediate and a subtle pout accompanies it.

"This carpet," she huffs and kneads the singed carpet loops between her fingers, "It is completely ruined."

"Ah whateva'. Afta' this function this dodgy closet will be tha' least of that blokes worries!"

She can't disagree. She doubts Duncan cares about this closet of the many he has.

"John," she says. The first time she's said his name since he's told her.

"What's up?"

"I would like to know about you, too." The "too" is an afterthought and it's somewhere between a question and a demand but only because she's genuinely curious about him.

"'Bout lil 'ol me. Hmm. Well if I'm bein' honest, ya didn't answer my questions from earlier. But I'll play nice since ya told me a 'lil tiny bit 'bout yerself," He smiles. "Fair dinkum, I'm just a guy from 'Straya. Sydney, 'Straya. Addicted ta Tim Tams and a convicted arsonist. That's 'the lot."

Amara pauses. "Jo— "

"I'm just jokin', the convicted part," He winks.

She doesn't know what to comment on or whether to comment at all so she stays quiet.

"Aw come off it, we were gettin' along I thought."

"We are." She thinks. Still not one-hundred percent sure.

He mumbles something unclear, something she probably wasn't supposed to hear anyway. Another hum surfaces. She looks closely at him to figure out it wasn't him. The door wasn't thick— she's pretty sure he could also hear wavering shrieks on top of rapid bass. Her speculation is it came from outside. Whatever it is, it's getting louder and causing more commotion as they sit on charred carpet.

"Hey what the hell are you doing?!"

"Get lost, geezer!"

Familiar orange orbs illuminate the bottom of the door. Oh no. Amara moves to kneel in front of John, her chest grazing John's shoulder with haste and desperation. She disregards his confusion and prepares her backside with a semi sphere of fire to protect both of them, involuntarily crouching forward when she hears, Fire in the hole!

Wood chips of the once intact door project into her fiery shield and sizzle away at the first instance of contact. She felt a small sting at the impact of the explosion and she hopes that John didn't as well. Amara releases her fire. Her lungs pump fast as her eyes meet John's. She couldn't read his eyes just yet.

"I am very sorry. Are you ok-"

"'Mara! We gotta go, 'Berto's gone completely wacko— Oooh. What's goin' on in here?"

"Tabby, you could have hurt us! What were you thinking?" Amara stands up and looks between John and her best friend.

"These assholes didn't let me open the door the normal way so," she shrugs with a grin. " Anyway girlie, Roberto is drunk as fuck so we might wanna get out of here before we get busted big time."

"Where is Roberto now? Is he in danger?"

"If you count jumping off tables shirtless as danger, then yes," she laughs.

"Tabitha that's not funny. Let's go help him."

Amara feels someone slide past her, that someone being John, with a light hand on her waist to guide his way out. She jumps in shock.

"Sorry, luv. Didn't mean to give ya a fright. It was nice ta meet ya," He says on his way out, but not before stopping to reach out for her hand.

It's warm. Whatever he gave her. Perfectly small enough to fit in her closed fist. Though it's not important right then. He's still looking at her, his hand still cradles hers and his smile is indecipherable. He's staring her down and suddenly she felt two inches short and nine feet tall all at once.

"It was nice meeting you too," she breathes.

The garnet on her face was betraying her, she knew it. She's not sure if he notices or not but if he did, he didn't say anything. These last few seconds feel like forever and a day and she spends them gazing at his exiting body, wondering why her chest couldn't properly find a rhythm and her stomach was imploding on itself.

Her insides went for another round of earthquakes when Tabby teases, "Was 'nice meeting you' code for something?" Tabitha makes kissy faces at her; mwah mwah mwah on her cheeks.

"Let's find Roberto and go home." Amara laughs, pushes Tabitha away and stuffs her gift in her pocket.

Tabitha gestures to the jagged hole she blew in the door. "After you, Princess."

That weird wailing Amara heard was not apart of the upbeat song, she concludes at the sight before her. Roberto, intoxicated and lagged, lay sprawled on a sea of red plastic cups. More people crowd around the scene.

This was the first time she's seen Roberto cry. He sobs, snot making slimey webs connecting from the floor to his nose. His skin covered in a thin layer of sweat, hair stuck to his forehead and the crook of his neck because of it. He's a messy product of alcohol and probably even the worst of the night.

Amara grabs Tabitha's hand to lead her over to Roberto— her other hand was too busy filming Roberto. Amara kneels and places a hand on his forehead hesitantly. She didn't really know what to do except check if his body temperature was okay. She looks at Tabitha.

"He'll be okay. He just needs some air," Tabitha says to her as she still beams the phone light in his face. "Dude, this boogie is huge. 'Mara, look!"

Okay that boogie is huge— oh gods— and yes she finds this whole situation a bit funny but she has to be the mature person here no matter how disturbing it is. So she shoves the thought of his boogie away and goes to help him up instead.

"Tabby can you help me?"

"Sure thing. One sec. So if you wanna see more of this drunk guy right here, subscribe bitchesss! Laters! " She shouts to her phone. "Thanks, Sunny. I'm gonna get, like, bazillions of likes because you you."

Tabitha pats his wet head before putting her phone in her bra. Miniskirts didn't have pockets.

"Everybody get out the way! Shows over!" Tabitha says when they finally get him on his unbalanced feet.

They drag him to the door, his weight overpowering theirs when they get outside and sit him on the curb to wait for a cab. Afterwards they put Amara's hoodie on him in substitute of his lost shirt. He's mumbling things. Things that didn't quite make sense alone, his words like puzzle pieces.

"So how did you guys like the party?" Tabitha asks jokingly like she knows her responses were going to be a glare and some slurred words.

"I waa- want my mo… mmmm," Roberto leans his head against Tabitha's shoulder.

"There, there Sunny. How about you, Princess?"

"It was interesting, as always." She means it.

Amara stares at the cracks in the pavement, colored rainbow from the strobe lights inside. It compliments the low, tranquil tides that surround the neighborhood. Something pokes her in her side, distracting her, and she thought it was Roberto playing around however he is halfway sleep on Tabitha. She had forgotten the gift she got today. She holds it in her hand again, disappointed when it's comforting warmth is replaced by cool metal. She clutches it tighter.

"I told you! You guys had the time of your lives, admit it."

"I guess so," Amara smiles.

"Mmm…Eu tenho que ir ao banheiro*," Roberto murmurs into Tabitha's shoulder and falls heavier into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i uploaded this on ff already and forgot to do so on here so enjoy! And I'm writing H right now so expect that soon c: thanks for reading! 
> 
> *Roberto says "girl" (menina), "troublemaker" (encrenqueira), and "I have to use the bathroom" (Eu tenho que ir ao banheiro) in Portuguese according to Google.


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